Seeking Courage

by Gregory P. Smith

  “Thank you, Doctor. That is some comfort.”

  “Now, we will be applying several treatments to rid you of this bacterial infection, and I ask you to be strict with the process. That way we will have you cured and on your way.” He examined me behind the closed curtain, but a couple of times, in spite of his being gentle, I gave a painful start. “Your medical history shows you’ve just been released from the London medical system for shell shock concussion, so I’m sure you want to re-employ as quickly as possible.”

  With the examination over, I leaned back against the pillow. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want. More than ever, I need redemption through getting on with what I set out to do here in France.”

  Hume patted my forearm while looking at me with kindness. “You are a good man, I can tell. That positive attitude will be a key piece of your cure.”

  The doctor reviewed the treatment, which included good food, fresh air, and silver solution injections that would stimulate my immune system. “I’m embarrassed, but thank you for looking after me and for your kindness.”

  He nodded his acknowledgment. “Lots of bed rest and a worry-free mind, Lieutenant. Light exercise, no cricket, no football, no running. I find walking along the seacoast to be rehabilitating. One sees many hospital blues along the boardwalk.”

  I kept to the strict regimen prescribed by Dr. Hume and began to feel better after the first week. However, because there remained evidence of infection, I needed to stay the course and be patient. I wanted the bacterium completely out of my system.

  Yet the companion to patience is time. With time on my side, I thought a lot about Cissy. How was she doing? Had the authorities contacted her? Who were the authorities, military or the national health board? Thinking of the adjutant’s attitude, were they kind or rough?

  I wavered in my intense feelings between anger and compassion, which confirmed at least one thing: I cared about her. If she had known she was carrying the disease, I would be devastated, since that meant she didn’t care about my welfare. But if she was innocent and didn’t know, then I needed to be a comfort to her. But how could I help when I was forbidden to contact her and was shortly to be assigned to a battlefield?

  . . .

  I welcomed the 1917 New Year in a quiet fashion from the hospital grounds in Le Havre, followed by a mid-January order to report by shuttle lorry to the nearby Canadian Base Depot. I marched out that day in full uniform, feeling relieved to finally be returning to my military duties yet unsettled about the two recent hospital visits on my record.

  I began my journey under a cloud of confusion about what was to come, what was before me. I struggled to keep my emotions in check, to not sit in the lorry and sob my heart out. I felt guilty, remorseful, embarrassed, and uncertain as I sat beside the driver, reflecting on what was to come. I wasn’t just scared about my immediate future; I worried over Cissy.

  I wanted her to be clear of responsibility, to have been as surprised as I was about the disease. I wanted that shared innocence to spawn a new world for both of us. Yet I felt desolate at not being able to speak with her, hold her, and hear her weep out the straightforward truth. I felt as anguished as on that day at Mouquet Farm when I was buried by enemy artillery. I again felt buried, this time with emotion.

  PART II

  Chapter 21

  January 1917

  “Pitman, is it?”

  I saluted sharply. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Pitman reporting, Major Deedes.”

  Major Henry Granville Deedes was born into the Indian British Service and later immigrated to the Dominion of Newfoundland. Now at thirty-five, with military tattoos on both arms and piercing blue eyes, he looked a formidable CO.

  “Please sit, Pitman, let’s talk. Welcome to the 12th Reserves.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Crumpling the top of the report he had fished out of my file, Deedes peered at me. “I have reviewed your medical history. Quite a scare you had at the Somme, eh?”

  I shifted in my seat, anticipating a reference to the other hospital stay. “Yes, it made me understand just how mechanized this conflict is.” The major smiled, perhaps with fond memories of past service.

  “Quite so. Not like sepoy command in India, I daresay.”

  “I suppose not, sir.”

  “Lieutenant, we need to speak frankly. Please be at ease.”

  I felt a twang of dread about what was coming, about how it would affect my next assignment. Only God knew how much I didn’t want to be a paper-pushing adjutant. “Yes, sir. Yes, of course.”

  “Most of our Canadians discharged from 39 General are sent up here to the 12th Reserves, a great number of which have been afflicted in a similar manner as you, so I’ve heard the usual apologies, remorse, and wishes of turning the clock back.”

  Would it sound too defensive to, well, defend myself ? “It’s not—”

  Deedes peered up from my file. “Your service record tells me that you’ve had legal training, so you understand frankness. You had a dalliance, you paid dearly for it, and we need to move on. Are you following?”

  Through the staccato of Deedes’s voice, I realized what he was doing. A feeling of relief swept from my brain to my feet, causing a slight sweat but eliminating the dread I had felt only moments before. “Sir, very much so.”

  “Good. Now, the RCRs have moved north. You’ve missed them, I’m afraid. Their next initiative will be months ahead, but we cannot keep you in reserve waiting for some unknown request to backfill casualties, as inevitable as that will be.”

  I looked at him hopefully. “Sir, are you thinking of assigning me to an alternative battalion?”

  “In a manner. You see, Pitman, the war in the air is key to achieving our victory. Sadly, the Somme conflict seriously reduced the number of available flyers. Just now, transfers to the Royal Flying Corps are a priority, and I believe you would be a good fit.”

  Gads, I was not expecting that. My mind flooded with thoughts and images. “With respect, sir, the life expectancy of a flyer is known to be quite short. Are you suggesting this because of my recent condition, a sort of penalty for my dalliance, as you mentioned?” Damn, I didn’t mean to sound defensive again.

  The major grinned. He was really quite affable. “Not at all, it is not as simple as that. You’ve had a devil of a time dealing with shell shock, but you pulled through. Some would not be as willing to return to the front. Many agitate for Home Establishment duties.”

  I looked down as I twirled my hat in my hands, thinking that this was the moment to ask for home duty, to be safe in England if that was what I wanted. I quickly dismissed the thought. “I consider it my duty to return to the front, sir.”

  “You’ve obviously a way of overcoming the things that must haunt you, the things that haunt all of us. You’ve a logical mind that is capable of grasping map reading, mechanics, reconnaissance, and bombing techniques, so you profile as a pretty good RFC candidate.” My mind was reeling. I was flattered to be spoken of in such high regard, but I wondered why I gave the impression of managing affairs so well. I had heard that before—that I portrayed confidence even while my gut was churning over some event or other.

  I remembered back to when I first became aware of that. It was after immigrating to Saskatoon, when I was up at Redberry Lake Camp with a few school chums in the summer of ‘09. During routine riding lessons, we had taken turns on a young stallion that had barely been broken. All the lads had difficulty staying in the saddle, and when my turn came, the beast had not at all settled down.

  Climbing up onto an old harvesting machine, I had slipped over the saddle while others held him steady. When they let go, he bucked and kicked like the devil, and in short order, I was thrown to the ground. I was trembling, and my heart raced; sweat dripped off my forehead and down behind my ears. I inwardly sobbed as I could hear the others chanting my name, over and over, as I kneeled in the dust. Pitman, Pitman, pity Pitman! Somehow, I rose and, without looking at anyone, climbed that ha
rvester and sat right back in the saddle. I was not going to quit.

  Later, the lads had gathered around and congratulated me on my persistence. What they hadn’t known was just how afraid I was, how it took all of my gumption to get back on that horse. I guess it was pure determination that had given me strength; it looked like courage when really I was full of fear.

  “I understand, Major Deedes. I appreciate the acknowledgement.”

  “Bluntly, Pitman: we have a shortage of flyers and you’re a damn good candidate. The type that can grasp the concept, absorb details, and survive in the skies. And you are a fully trained machine gun officer.”

  Deedes shuffled through a file in front of him, evidently finding what he was seeking. “Let me see . . . Lewis Machine Gun Course at the Canadian Military School, Shorncliffe, and another Lewis course at the 2nd Army School, British Expeditionary Force in France. You’ve been squeezing the ole trigger with zest. That gunnery expertise is quite valued in the skies!”

  My mind was flashing through so many thoughts, so many scenarios, about what this type of commitment would bring—a completely different form of fight, both exciting and differently dangerous. One that would see me acquire new skills and catapult me into the heavens, flying over the enemy at speeds as fast as a train, maybe faster. Controlling an aircraft while fighting, risking the likelihood of being shot down or just crashing. Perhaps being flung out of a cockpit with arms flailing while soaring to a horrible death. But as quick as those thoughts came, a more calming sense took over. I had thus far survived by keeping focused, by being busy in order to find courage. Yes, this flying assignment would work.

  I looked at the major with a huge grin. “All right, sir, I’ll give it a show. I’m ready to be a flyer.”

  “Well done, Pitman! I’ll have my adjutant draw up the papers and see if RFC HQ over at St. Omer agrees with my recommendation. Meanwhile, you will remain in active duty here at Le Havre assisting in the training of freshly arrived troops.”

  Chapter 22

  February 1917

  The interview at St. Omer was detailed but seemingly scattered. The RFC commissioner wanted to know how often I had been in battle, what sporting games I played, if I could balance on a jittery horse, and what other coordination skills I possessed. I thought back to the summer of 1910 when I stayed with friends down at Little Manitou Lake, who taught me to shoot game while mounted. The commissioner was intensely keen on the details of that venture.

  And he continued: Did I have good eyesight, hold enough knowledge to recognize military units of all nationalities? Did I think I could interpret the significance of infantry developments when viewed from the air, and did I think I could apply my machine-gun training to a flying situation while traveling at eighty miles per hour? He questioned my education at both the Winnipeg School of Law Clerks and the University of Saskatchewan. He wanted to understand my motive for transferring from the infantry.

  He was more thorough than I expected and ended the interview precipitously.

  Meanwhile, I endured tedious Canadian Base Camp duties while clinging to the anticipation of transferring into the RFC. But warm quarters and routine hours afforded plenty of time for letter writing and catching up with Issy, Hardy, Minnie, and letters home. One unremarkable day was pierced with the excitement of a letter from Daisy Pitman.

  Lieutenant Robert Pitman

  Royal Canadian Regiment

  C/O Canadian Base Camp

  Le Havre

  27 February, 1917

  My Dearest Bob,

  It is with my deepest sympathy and understanding that I am writing you about the situation between you and Cissy. She was hospitalized but is now near the end of her convalescence in London.

  When I visited her, Cissy confided the circumstances. The medical board contacted her just before the New Year, and after an examination, determined she had venereal disease. While they did not disclose your personal particulars, she is sure that based on their questioning and the timing of their visit, you became infected.

  The board stated they are convinced that her partner, you, was not infected prior to the intimacy. She accepts that and admitted to them that she had a dalliance in October past. Unfortunately, that soldier could not be reached. Cissy wants you to know that she is terribly sorry, and that if she had been at all aware of being infected, would not have put you in such a situation.

  She feels the pain this has caused you, and that you are not inclined to have anything further to do with her. She wanted you to know she received your affectionate letter of 8 December and that she feels the same; however, she recognizes that it expresses your feelings prior to being aware of these current circumstances.

  Bob, Cissy is my dear friend, and despite this angst, I’m so relieved she escaped that nasty Silvertown business. It’s a blessing that she was not at the Brunner Mond factory on January 19 when the TNT explosion occurred. While I feel deeply for the souls that died, I am thankful she was at that time hospitalized.

  Before I sign off, let me say that I’ve known Cissy for most of my life and can say that her apology is sincere and truthful. In the event it matters, this has shaken her to the core. She wishes you well and desires that you remain safe.

  Eric and I join together in expressing our love for you.

  Daisy

  Silvertown explosion? Workers dead? Of course, I had read a brief article in The Telegraph, but I was so wrapped up in my hospitalization it didn’t register. Oh yes, I too was very much relieved that Cissy was spared. It clearly resonated that this war was not confined to the battlefield but extended to the homeland. The hardships and risks that women were enduring in their factory work under zeppelin night attacks and in sourcing enough food to feed their families were a testimony to their contribution and their strength. How could our men in Parliament continue to deny women their equal rights?

  Yet in the days and weeks that followed, my mind was harangued with a range of emotions. While I knew Cissy would be interviewed about the disease, I couldn’t have known when, and I had forced myself to avoid thinking about it. I wanted to understand and accept that it was all right that there had been others before me, at least one.

  I was frustrated with wild, random thoughts. Was she telling the truth? Was she really sorry or just remorseful because she knew she was infected and got caught out? Did she really feel the same as I or just seek sympathy and understanding? How could she simply assume I wanted nothing more to do with her? Dammit all, did I?

  Daisy vouched for her, and I respected Daisy. I read and reread the letter, holding it, clutching it, in an attempt to feel its sincerity. Did any of it really matter at this point?

  Yes!

  On discharge from the 39th, I had made a vow to follow up, to reach into her soul. Wasn’t this the opportunity to do just that? I knew just what I needed to do, and I would find an opportunity to do so.

  Chapter 23

  April 1917

  The Royal Flying Corps training aerodrome to which I was attached was located in a farmer’s field near Hythe on the shores of the English Channel, the 1st School of Aerial Gunnery. The location was the nearest to the Continent, which meant two things: that we were as close as anyone to the fighting and that, when graduated, we would be deployed to an aerodrome in France. I was not going to Africa or Asia.

  “Pitman!” yelled the captain.

  “Present!”

  As one of fourteen prospective gunner/observers in training, I had been surprised at the sophisticated syllabus that seemed more consistent with an engineering discipline than with navigating an aeroplane.

  “Now listen up, officers,” bellowed the captain. “Let me be the first to formally welcome you to flying school. You will find that becoming an aviator involves a degree of culture shock as most of you have come from the trenches. The contrast of being stationary in a trench versus traveling at high speed several thousand feet above can be daunting. For some of you that will be disorienting, perhaps overwhelming.
”

  “Will you be training us, sir?” questioned a newbie.

  The captain walked down the line, stopping to address the trainee. “Sometimes, Lieutenant, and at other times you will be piloted by one of the other experienced officers.”

  “Captain,” another emboldened recruit sputtered, “man has only been flying for about ten years, so how is anyone considered experienced?”

  Our CO turned to the other end of our line, strutting through the grass. “You will find, cadet, that this technology is revolutionary in a permanent way, and once you understand the basic rules of flying, experience builds rapidly.”

  “Exciting!”

  “Yes, it is, and it is my job to make it safe as well. Traveling at eighty miles per hour some ten thousand feet in the air, any doubt will be replaced with courage, gentlemen. Accept that now and you—we— will win control of the skies.”

  I caught myself gulping but was fairly sure no one saw. Standing out on that blustery spring day under billowy clouds amid blue skies, we periodically gazed upward as we heard the captain explain that our two-month training was to include reconnaissance and application of Morse code. For the first time during this dreadful war, I began to realize that the reason officers were selected as flyers was related to the need to grasp technical concepts, which sometimes coincided with advanced education.

  The captain blustered, “Other skills taught here include navigation, bomb sighting, and machine gunnery—both on the ground and in aerial combat. But before you undergo your baptism of fire, there will be two weeks of classroom theory.”